


we contain multitudes

by corvidity



Category: Gintama
Genre: Astrology, Be Forever Yorozuya, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Gintama Fanfiction Season 2018, Grief/Mourning, Obon, Yorozuya Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidity/pseuds/corvidity
Summary: A series of oneshots for Gintama Fanfiction Season 2018.i. In the Eyes of Gods - Sadaharu grows into godhood.ii. Four Heavenly Kings - An astrology lesson.iii. Seasons - Kamui keeps running into a certain Galaxy Sword Master.iv. lights will guide you home - Obon is approaching and Seita tries to honour his first mother.v. A Logical Conclusion - What happened to Tama and Yamazaki in the Be Forever universe.





	1. In the Eyes of Gods

The voice first comes to him in his sleep, shortly after he has tired himself out chasing his sister around the temple grounds (much to the dismay of their miko guardians).

 

 _Little god_ , the voice rumbles. A speck of light appears in the darkness of his mind. _Little god_ , the voice says again, low and deep and wise in a way that touches the bottom of the earth. Who are they speaking to?

 

 _To you, of course_ , the voice says, honey-gold and faintly sweet, like the offerings that shrine-goers leave. It feels warm too, almost as reassuring as his sister curled up beside him. He doesn’t know much of the world, but of the few things he does know, it’s that he must protect her.

 

 _What do you mean?_ he asks uneasily. _There aren’t any gods here._

The voice falls silent. Then it shimmers and curls, dancing on a black tide, and gathers into the shape of a snake with indistinct wings. The sweetness ages into something ancient and wise, heady like the oldest sake his miko sisters sometimes offer. But it smells young and fresh too, like the saplings that grow around the temple.

_Who are you?_ he asks, not quite daring to believe the answer when and if it comes.

 

 _We are the dragon veins. We are the ones you watch over._ The snake–dragon wraps around him, warm and affectionate. _It is good to see you like this._

 

_Like what?_

_Safe, and where you belong._

 

The darkness rises and falls in his vision. The wings brush over his head. _But you have some growing to do before you are ready, little god._

 

**

 

He wakes to a commotion made by his miko guardians, and grounds himself in their voices and actions. They, with their red and white robes, are the ones who commune with gods, burning the sticks that make strange scents.

 

Komako stirs beside him. “You are being foolish, brother. You cannot deny who we are.”

 

It is not that he _denies_ it exactly, but he dislikes the responsibility and expectation that comes with godhood. All he wants is a home for him and his sister, the promise of food and a belly rub every now and again. He asks so little of a world that demands so much of him.

 

Yet the power gathers beneath his paws, in shadow and light. Something in him calls to it, and it to him. Deep down, he knows Komako is right, even as he pushes the golden voice away. He just wants to be a dog, not a god.  

 

Then the sky-people come.

 

**

 

 _I don’t want to leave!_ he cries, pawing at his human sisters. He loves them, for he has had no one else to love save Komako, and they have shown him the only kindness in the world.

 

 _Don’t make me leave_ , he begs, knowing their minds are made up.

 

“It was time for you to leave the nest anyway,” they say.

 

“I’m not a bird!” he barks, digging his claws into the ground. “I have no wings to fly back home to you!”

 

“You’ll like your new home,” Ane says, tugging at his collar. He smells the lie for what it is, and scrabbles furiously at the ground, trying to anchor himself in place. It is not just the threat of leaving the only home he’s ever known that makes him desperate to stay; the further they go from the Terminal, the fainter the earth-pulse, the glowing web weakening with distance. As strange as the voice is, he cannot lose everything at once.

 

But he has no choice.

 

**

 

 _Little god_ , the voice returns to him in the darkening dusk, its light weaker than he last remembers.

 

_Why do you still call me that? If I were a god, they wouldn’t have left me here._

 

 _Even gods cannot deny or escape fate_. _But take heart_ , the dragon whispers into the softening night. _We will never abandon you. It is the way of humans to leave, but not ours._

 

An awful thought occurs to him. _Did I do something wrong?_

 

_Gods can do no wrong._

_I’ve told you, haven’t I, that I am not a god? Even if I were, I wouldn’t want to be one._

 

 _Gods do not choose themselves_ , the dragon murmurs, almost sadly, and is silent.

 

The box is too small. The eaves drip on him. His fur feels damp. In the morning, small mean-spirited humans smelling of aggression and boredom crowd around him. He doesn’t like their finger-pointing or harsh whispers. “Be good,” his human sisters had warned. (What good is being good?)

 

Then she appears.

 

“Sadaharu,” the red girl calls him. The name fits snug and tight around his body. Everything is large and unknown, but his name is not. The earth beneath his paws is alive and pulsing, and the voices sing. _Kag-u-ra_ they call her, the bright-eyed girl. Kagura. Kagura.

 

She smells of abandonment beneath her good cheer and strength, of having been tossed aside or left behind. In the face of his growling hostility, she swings him about, pushes back against his paws, matching him strength for strength. They are kin.

 

She loves Silver Perm and Glasses like her family, so even if they complain and whine and never take him for walks, they are family too. To be loved by them is better than to be a god, loved from afar.

 

**

 

“Monster!” they yell, and pelt him with stones that bounce off his now giant head as easily as the raindrops that escape Kagura’s umbrella. Every time the sky opens it is to remind him he is not wanted. But then they hit her, and his anger knows no bounds. He must protect his sister, four-legged or not; Kagura is his to protect.

 

 _Little god,_ the dragon warns, the first it has spoken to him since his abandonment.

 

_If I am a god, this is what I was born to do!_

 

It is his last thought before his vision fills with red.

 

**

 

The days pass. The Terminal grows. The veins beneath the earth reach out and whisper to him in their fluttering voices as he grows into his new family.

_Little god, you are not so little anymore._

 

_I am not ‘little god’. I am Sadaharu._

 

 _You will always be our little god_ , the dragon says.

 

**

 

Kagura leaves. The earth falls away, rushes into a dark, foamy pit. A point of light in the distance grows like a seed into the dragon, wings wide open.

 

 _You could not have prevented her leaving_.

 

Sadaharu wishes he could howl into the darkness. _What use is it to be a god when I could not go with her?_

 

The voice has no answer for him this time, no wisdom or platitude. If he is a god, he is not much of one. He cannot grant wishes or heal with a single touch; he cannot make anyone, even himself, stay.

 

 _Will you tell me this was fate?_ he cries. _Will you tell me this was all ordained?_

 

The dragon bows its head.

_Then I will make my own fate,_ Sadaharu says. _I will go with them to find her. Not as a god, but as her friend._

 

**

 

His paws pound the surface of an alien world, digging up clods of earth. History sticks to his fur in every speck of mud; of a people that ruined themselves and fled for the stars.

 

The rains of Rakuyo are seeping deep into his fur. But this time it is because he is coming to find her, to tell her she is wanted, that she has to come home. They’ll help save her first family; they’ll all go home together. He will be a good dog, a good friend, and a god too if that is what the dragon wants.

 

She is as red and bright as the sun, teeth bared and eyes glowing. Whatever is left of the planet sings to him, rejoices, _she has returned._

 

 _She is coming back with us,_ he says. _We are her home now._

 

 _Who are you to decide this?_ asks the weak whisper of the Rakuyo dragon.

 

The voice of the Earth dragon roars, _I am where she belongs._

 

**

 

But then –

 

The crow with his mantle of darkness descends, and the dragon writhes in pain at the corruption in its heart; the sweetness sours instantly and the gold screeches into white, then black, crumbling in his very mind, and through the pain he wonders if his first sister felt it too, his family from before.

 

 _Little god,_ the last of the dragon says. _It is time._  

 

Sadaharu feels and tastes the certainty of the words, as sickly sweet as strawberry milk. _You said you wouldn’t leave me._

 

 _But now you no longer need us._ Its body shatters like glass, the veins thrashing against the dark.  

 

The whispers are now his: _you are a god._

_I am a god,_ Sadaharu repeats. It sinks into every part of his body. _This is what a god does. I protect my family and my home._

He takes the weight of responsibility on his back like human children, and he keeps running into the future they will make together.

 

The ground trembles and cracks, and he lets the energy of the earth fill him to the brim with its power, till his fur stands on end and he feels he can conquer anything for love. He is a god, the guardian of the dragon veins; but he is friend to Kagura first, to Silver Perm and Glasses; he is Sadaharu of Yorozuya Gin-chan.


	2. Four Heavenly Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An astrology lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back-filling prompt one, 'Earth and Space'. I’m not an astrologer or anything close to it even with research, so please forgive anything glaringly wrong about these fictional constellations. Consider this set in an AU where the samurai won the Joui War.

It is said that of the dozens of constellations in the night sky, the Four Heavenly Kings shine the brightest. They are the first four any child of the land of samurai are taught, and for some, the only four they will ever know. So decisive was Kings’ victory over the Amanto they stamped it into the stars from which the sky people came; inscribed their forms into the darkness to stand guard over Earth and warn would-be conquerors: _this planet is not yours to take._  

 

Any child can name them:

 

First is the Shiroyasha, White Demon of the land. Renowned for his speed and ferocity, in the heavens he is just as efficient a hunter. His stars are suns, bright and unforgiving. But in the falling dusk he appears around the curve of the moon, his head crowned in silver and his sword in eternal night. The stars in his hair flutter in the cosmic breeze that carries his fate and ours; the outcome of a war rests on the edge of his blade. We pray to him before each battle for the wind to blow in our favour. But do not take him for granted. He loves so fiercely he sets the stars ablaze, and he will lend you strength only if you can control it; he will shatter your sword if you are not worthy.

 

Second is the Demon Commander of the Kiheitai, the brother-in-arms of the Shiroyasha. They stand back to back in silent combat against the alien hordes. His stars are fewer but no less bright; the distance between them is greater and the space darker, and on cloudy nights his form looks more a beast than a man. But given a clear sky in the country, he is graceful and strong, and the light of his stars ripples across the sky like a song. You need only beware his teeth – how his fangs do shear the night in two at daybreak. Any war waged under his sight is bound to be bloody and long. But it is said he looks fondly upon all those born under his sign.       

  

Third is the Dragon of Katsurahama coiling through the cosmos, a noble and mighty warrior. The stars that were his right arm died long ago, but it is said their fragments fell to Earth as diamonds and stones, to remind us wealth is not given but made. On rare summer evenings, his stars laugh like a thousand bells, cool and clear as water in a desert. When weary travellers look up, he reveals unseen paths to them that are not simply forks in the road. His stars are closest to Earth, and his faith in us the greatest, for he sees that we are not all lost. And so we pray to him to find our way forward when the darkness is deepest; we look to him before dawn for guidance.

 

Fourth is the Rampaging Noble, the left arm of the Shiroyasha, and a fearsome samurai in his own right. The first to appear at night, he if the first to fade by day. His watch is silent and keen, his footsteps shaded with purpose. He hides himself from all but the sharpest eyes, clothed in the starry armour of his comrades. Yet if you find him, you will never fail to see him again (the meteor showers that streak through his hair burn themselves into your memory _._ ) Though he is often overshadowed he should never be underestimated; his stars are fierce and fanged in the blood-red dusk, and we look to him for success in the shadows, where the lines are most blurred.


	3. Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamui keeps running into a certain Galaxy Sword Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been [checks notes] two entire months since this prompt was due to be posted. Amazing. On the off chance this fic has any readers left, I’m so sorry, and please enjoy the latest instalment. 
> 
> Theme: Seasons / Past, Present & Future  
> Characters: Characters separated by long distances (I swapped character prompts two and three, so this one features two characters who have never met (Kamui and Abuto), because I’ve been dying to write fic of them meeting.)

Kamui first meets him in the summer, on a desert planet scorched by sun and war. He slogs rather than steps through the dunes, boots heavy with sand. His tongue scrapes the roof of his mouth searching for the slightest hint of moisture.

 

Thousands of mummified corpses are gathered around him, like kindling for another war whose flames will devour the next generation. But Kamui is no undertaker or gravedigger, and he cares little for lives already extinguished. He is seeking a man, or so he’s been told, an old hermit of whom seafarers tell tales; strong as a thousand Amanto and able to move entire deserts at will. Kamui has never been one to shirk a good challenge.

 

The sun drums on his exposed head and neck as he crests the dune, looking down at a field of half-buried corpses. And there in the midst of the carnage like a dark, shrivelled seed is a man-made structure, something that might pass for a hut. A cloaked figure emerges; Kamui’s hair rises. Is this him, is this -?

 

The figure turns, and despite the distance, Kamui feels the deadly intent of its gaze.

 

“Are you here to see him?” comes the voice, rough and deep and carrying with little effort. “Afraid you’re a bit late.”

 

“You speak of the hermit?”

 

“Gone,” the man informs him. His hand drops to his waist, and Kamui tenses. But all the man pulls out is a communicator, which he raises to his mouth. If this - human, Kamui guesses - is not the hermit, then what was he doing here? The desert, still up to then, stirs suddenly, sand rising on a breeze. The wind carries to Kamui a coppery tang. Fresh, he surmises, and crosses gaze with the stranger.

 

Kamui bares his teeth. “If he is gone, then you were stronger.”

 

The bodies and sand between them erupt; they meet in the middle, fists finding flesh. Kamui’s feet sink into the sand and hot air roars in his ears like a collapsing sun. He trades blow after blow with the man, but neither can get the measure of the other. His opponent fights with restrained savagery, employing strikes both furious and controlled. Something about his style reminds Kamui of the samurai.

 

But samurai wield swords of metal or wood, not beam sabres.

 

Its eerie red light casts shadows over the man’s scarred face, peeking out from under a bramble of straw-coloured hair. Startled, Kamui realises night has descended as they fought. He hears the faint hum of the blade, the crackling of its power. In the undulating darkness, its glow is that of a blood moon.

 

No Earthling could naturally wield a beam sabre unless cybernetically augmented.

 

“Who are you?” he asks, pleasant as can be.

 

The man’s smile catches the light of his blade, and in a flash of blue, he is gone.

 

***

 

Kamui hates going planet-side when there’s neither war nor bloodshed. He was made to fight and scrap, to break bones and teeth. Planets teeming with life insult his refined sense of destruction. There’s nothing more detestable than birdsong and sunlight filtering through fruit-laden branches, colourful insects drifting from flower to flower. Weak and fragile, all of them, entirely dependent on one another for their survival.

 

“No planet more fertile than this in the galaxy,” Abuto sniffs as they step off the ramp into a firefight.

 

Guns chatter and beams hiss in a furious crossfire, old and new technology sending the public diving for cover. A crate of yellow fruit tumbles to the ground before them just as a body – presumably dead, going by the smoking hole in its chest – crushes the fruit into a pungent mess. The stench of ozone and smoke cuts a clear path through the destruction, and Kamui eagerly tails it.

 

Whatever started the melee is irrelevant at this point, as is the reason for their landing in the first place. Abuto can arrange to replenish their food supplies from another planet later. Right now, Kamui has a fist to exercise and blood to spill.

 

He dives into the forest at the fringes of the port, tracking the bloody footprints and splintered tree trunks, stepping over bodies and then carelessly kicking them aside as his excitement grows. The hunger for a good fight drives him ever deeper, Abuto’s cries long swallowed by the shrieks of birds and low droning of insects. His blood sings with exhilaration to see so much death sown on a planet in permanent spring.

 

Finally, Kamui comes to a stop at the edge of a clearing. All greenery at its circumference bears scorch marks; the ground itself has been violently unmade, exposing root and soil. Standing at the centre of the storm is a tall, cloaked figure swinging a familiar red beam.

 

It almost embarrasses Kamui how easily the man’s opponents fall, until only one remains. When the man from the desert planet strikes down the boy, Kamui will greet him with a bullet and clenched fist.

 

But the blade crackles and dies. Birdsong bleeds back in at the edges of Kamui’s hearing.

 

He watches, thunderstruck, as the wielder of the beam sabre turns his back on the boy, who appears shocked and relieved in equal parts. The boy stares at the man, and then his hands, as if surprised by his continued existence. Kamui seethes. Before the desert man can make five steps, he lets loose a low growl and cannons forward, braid snapping back at his speed.  

 

 _Crunch._ The downward swing of his umbrella comes to a premature halt in the iron grip of a metal hand. The cyborg’s mechanical eye meets Kamui’s, amusement lined with an unmistakeable steel-hard warning. Beneath their crossed arms, stopped a hair’s width from his head, the boy’s eyes are wide with fear.

 

“Coward,” Kamui spits. “You dare spare a single life?”

 

Rage eats at him. His arms shouldn’t be trembling, but he cannot help the potency of his mingled anger and disappointment. Doesn’t this man understand the significance of his own strength? What he could do with it? The planets and people he could conquer and crush beneath his sword? Instead, he uses it to spare _weaklings._

 

“I have a samurai’s honour, despite everything. Kid didn’t look like he wanted to be here.”

 

 _Samurai._ Shinsuke has spoken of their frivolities, their diseased and useless teachings. They put up well enough in a fight but are weakened by their sentimentality for other lives. He can only muster a hollow bark of laughter at himself for not guessing sooner.

 

“You’re soft then, like the rest.”

 

A sudden surge of sunlight fans across the clearing, wrapping him in a warm, stifling cocoon, and whatever bloodlust Kamui had chased to the clearing flees his body. The trees around them lift and dip their crowns in time to the breeze. Kamui has no time for sentimental fools, and no desire to step foot on this planet ever again.

 

The samurai gives him a crooked grin. “I like you, kid. I haven’t seen such nerve in ages. So let me give you some advice: if you’re looking for strength, here is not the place.” He releases his grip on the umbrella and steps back. “Go home, kid.”

 

Which kid he says this to, neither knows.    

 

***

 

After Abuto finishes chastising him for the umpteenth time on Not Running into Forests Without Telling Someone Where You Are Going, Kamui assigns him to gathering as much information as he can on the desert man as punishment.

 

“This isn’t going to end well,” Abuto warns, already resigned.

 

“That’s the idea,” Kamui says.

 

The Galaxy Sword Master, it turns out, is a semi-mythical being a rung below the gods. That suits Kamui perfectly. He’s never believed in forces he couldn’t punch out or at least get a hit on, and the man he’d met on the desert and forest planets had been solid enough. If only his pathetic _compassion_ weren’t so real. The man destroys entire planets for a living, and he couldn’t even bring himself to snuff out one insignificant life?

 

Shinsuke finds Kamui’s irritation amusing for reasons Kamui would love to shake out of him.

 

“You said he spared a boy? Sounds like some spineless thing Gintoki would’ve done.”

 

No wonder his sister is growing ever softer in the head, spending so much time around the silver samurai. Her inherited strength is nothing in the service of kindness and mercy. Sakata is, of course, a formidable opponent despite his never-ending instinct to protect and defend, but it’s balanced by the deliciously demonic streak that runs through him.

 

It comes down to getting your priorities right, Kamui decides. To defend or to attack? To be dominated or to dominate? He already knows his answer.

 

They slip one day, completely by accident (as Abuto swears repeatedly) into an uncharted region of space. Hyperdrive stuttering, they crash land on the only planet in sight, one caught between two stars and seasons, where the leaves are golden and the fog a permanent damp shroud.

 

As repairs get underway, Kamui wanders. He walks and walks until he ends up staring into a stone well that seems to have no bottom. When he looks up, the Sword Master’s blade casts sickly red light onto the well’s rim.   

 

“You,” he snarls. “How are you here?”

 

The Sword Master gestures to the well as he bats away the spray of bullets Kamui sends his way. “Woah, careful there! You don’t wanna take out this well.”

 

“Do I look like I’d care for something as fragile as this?” Kamui stamps a vicious boot on the stone edge and listens in satisfaction to the faint echoes of dirt and crumbling rock falling into the water below. “Now if you’d please stay still so I can kill you –”

 

The Sword Master has the gall to wag a finger at him. “Not so fast, kid.”

 

Kamui grits his teeth. “I’m no kid.”

 

“Hey, relax, kiddo. Take it easy. I’m not here to fight you. Just doing a bit of scouting work, is all.” The samurai points to the well. “Curious power source, this. Keeps the planet in balance between night and day, suspended here in this part of the cosmos. Everything’s perfectly preserved, never changing. Neat, huh?” He laughs, and Kamui scowls.  

 

“Are you deaf? I’m not a child. Why should I believe such fairytales?”

 

The samurai’s grin becomes ten times as obnoxious, a fool’s grin and nothing more.

 

“You believe in becoming stronger, don’t you?” It has the ring of a rhetorical question, serious intent beneath the jovial tone. Kamui’s eyes narrow. “You know,” the Sword Master says, “I have a little brother like you.”

 

This time, he backs away from the well to meet Kamui’s leap across it, metal fist curling around the umbrella tip.

 

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about,” Kamui hisses, trying to press forward. His family are fools who threw their lot in with lesser races, and it’s only blind fortune they have made anything of it: another so-called home, surrounded by so-called friends. What use does he have for these trivial, irrational things?

 

Kamui throws his free hand in a punch that the samurai meets with his own, and there they stand, deadlocked, faces inches apart. No matter how much they struggle, neither gains the advantage. Rage burns hot in Kamui’s veins at the man’s obstinacy, his pig-headed _goodness._ A murderer pretending to be a saint deserves nothing but his scorn and a sword through the neck.  

 

“I’ll kill you,” he snarls. “I’ll destroy this well and watch this planet burn, and then I’ll kill them all.”

 

Somewhere behind them, the deep darkness of the well flickers with scraps of golden leaves.  

 

“You say kill,” the Galaxy Sword Master muses, “but your eyes do not.”

 

***

 

The last time Kamui meets the itinerant samurai known as the Galaxy Sword Master, the other stares at him from across a frozen lake on a planet in winter. It has been months since they last fought, though it is difficult to be exact with the way planetary rotations skew the passage of time.

 

“Kid!” the samurai yells, almost in greeting.

 

They fight on a field of snow, beams cracking open the barren ground and scoring deep ruts into the soft, brown earth beneath. Entire forests are felled at their hands, trees cracking and groaning as they topple over. The cold tugs at his fingers and face, snaps at his heels, yet the fire within Kamui is more than enough fuel. Snow melts in his footsteps, roots snarl into dead-knots to escape him.

 

The Sword Master bellows with laughter at first, comical guffaws that only serve to drive Kamui to fight harder and faster. He will no longer be insulted or belittled, condescended to like some misbehaving child. And gradually, he begins to gain the upper hand. _I’ll kill him this time. He cannot be stronger than me._

 

By the time he has the samurai on his knees at the centre of another frozen lake, both their breaths come in lung-needling gasps and coalesce as white puffs in the frigid air. Snow, soft and numb, brushes his cheek. The silence feels almost like a benediction. Kamui’s lips crack as he stretches them into a bare-toothed grin.  

 

“Farewell,” he says. “You were interesting enough that I had to make an effort to kill you. It’s almost a shame.”

 

This victory will be a victory over those hollow-headed fools he calls father and sister, and their incessant, nauseating sympathy for the weak. With the next strike, he will be free from blue-eyed smiling idiots too reckless in their affections.  

 

Hair unkempt, whipped into a tangle and matted with sweat, the Sword Master cracks his own grin. Blood trickles down his forehead. “I’m going to miss these meetings of ours, kid.” His human eye holds a sliver of what might be pity, and Kamui’s finger tightens on the trigger. No more of this _emotion._

 

In between one blink and the next, a red-hot beam erupts like lava through the lake. Kamui, rarely wrong-footed, puts enough distance between them in time to see cracks spiderwebbing across the ice. An ominous groaning fills the air. Ah, the noble samurai sacrifice, taking his enemy down with him. A futile effort considering there is no one to save.

 

Through the geysers of steam generated by the beam sabre’s heat, Kamui just about glimpses the figure of the Sword Master retreating into the distance. But he cannot move forward without pitching head-first into the icy depths, and his desire to best the other does not outstrip his sense of self-preservation. He’ll have to let his prey escape, and with their luck, they’ll be meeting again before long.

Next time will be his last. Next time, Kamui won’t hesitate. 


	4. lights will guide you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obon approaches and Seita tries to honour his first mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the theme prompt of "family/home". You might notice I've cut the collection down to five chapters now; that's because the sixth fill has already been posted as On Standby.

When Hosen died, it was full summer and Obon was just around the corner. Now Obon is practically breathing down their necks, and Seita finds himself at a loss. Mum and Tsukki are busy overseeing the repairs, and he doesn’t want to interrupt their work. It’s important that everyone, from the Hyakka to the ordinary courtesans, sees how they’re spearheading the building of the new Yoshiwara. So it’s up to Seita to take responsibility for Obon preparations.

The tiny table and off-white tablecloth he’d found in one of the old storerooms, probably last opened before Hosen became Night King, isn’t much of an altar, but it’s the thought that counts. He doesn’t know if the cast-off oranges and apples were what his first mother liked in life. Hinowa hadn’t really been able to tell him about her.

No one has an image of her, and very few remember her name or face. Mum doesn’t like talking about her -- maybe the wounds are still too fresh. Maybe looking at him is too painful a reminder of a life she couldn’t save. Maybe she remembers the retribution that Hosen promised if she ever talked about her to anyone else. It sucks that Hosen still has to be a pain in the neck even after they stomped his ashes to bits in the days after Yoshiwara’s liberation.

What a jerk. Seita can’t describe how happy he is that the guy’s dead.

He can’t really explain why it makes him sad, either. All this time it was Hosen’s fault for everything: his mum’s feet, his sister’s face, the eternal night; having to hide and run and live in fear. Everything that was wrong about his life could all be traced back to Hosen. So, naturally, Seita is glad the guy’s dead. But it doesn’t magically make everything _right _.__ It doesn’t bring back the dead. He can’t hug his first mum and tell her they made it better now; Yoshiwara is a place you’d want to live in again! He can’t see both his mums reunite and watch Hinowa’s grief lift from her face.    

He just talks to a portrait-less altar piled with lumpy, discoloured oranges and a couple of dark red apples, along with a bundle of wildflowers he’d picked himself. Sooner or later, they’re going to have to create a proper grave for his first mother. He imagines a marble headstone situated somewhere bright and sunny, engraved with her name -- something like “beloved mother of Seita and dear sister of Hinowa and Tsukuyo”. Just to remind her she’s definitely not alone anymore.  

Then, they can do the rituals properly; the gravesweeping and offerings and incense-burning. It’s important they honour the dead the right way to make up for what Hosen didn’t do. That bastard. (He can say that because Uncle Gin says _bastard_ too.)

“I’m gonna make you proud,” he says to the altar.    

They celebrate the first two days of Obon under cloudless skies and heavy humidity. At night, lantern light glows from every doorway, inviting the spirits of the dead back home. Mum and Tsukki oversee a brief ceremony recognising all those lost under Hosen’s reign, and Seita couldn’t be prouder of them. He uses what little money he’s scrounged up to buy a paper lantern that he takes back to his impromptu altar. It’s a little weak, a guttering light, but he hopes his first mum will see it in the darkness.    

On the last day of Obon, he can’t fold a boat. It should be the simplest thing, but his mountain folds collapse and the valley folds upheave. The lantern flickers mournfully against the falling darkness. They’ll be heading up to the Edo River soon. Hinowa has already called for him, and Tsukki will be by soon to enforce the law. Seita narrowly avoids giving himself a papercut and fights back the frustration and tears. It’s just a boat. A paper boat.       

“Seita!” comes a put-out voice. “What’s taking you so long?”

The paper crumples and him with it. “Oh,” comes Tsukki’s voice. “Oh, Seita.”

The crowds are swelling around the riverbank when they arrive, children squirming past the grown-ups to the foreshore with their boats clutched close. The boat that Hinowa folded on the way over sits carefully in Seita’s hand, her words playing in his head. _I miss her too, and I’m sorry you felt you needed to honour her alone _.__ It’s not her fault. It’s never mum’s fault. He’s not really much of a son, getting his first mother killed and making his second one sad.  

“Seita?” The lapping of the river is suddenly loud. Mum reaches up and lays a hand on his head, her eyes unbearably kind. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

“You’re my mum too,” he mumbles. “And so is Tsukki, kinda. I didn’t want you guys to worry about Obon or anything. You’ve already done so much for Yoshiwara and, --” His throat feels jammed.

Hinowa takes his head between her hands. All of her is so calm and gentle and soft, and he doesn’t deserve any of it. “You’ll always be her son, Seita. And we will look after you as our own for as long as we can. Your family is behind and ahead of you, but it’s always _with_ you, here.” She taps his heart. “Okay?”

Tsukki shifts on her feet, face red. “Uh. Yeah. We’re here for ya.”

It’s a bit too bright all of a sudden, everything blurry; the river and the lights and the crowds. Two pairs of hands are on his, guiding the boat into the water, where it joins the hundreds of other souls streaming back home.  


	5. A Logical Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Tama and Yamazaki in the Be Forever universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the character prompt of 'minor character' and the theme prompt of 'Be Forever'. I basically wrote this at the tail end of an all-nighter, so take that and the fic as you will. (Ha ha also, do you get the joke in the title... it's like... the conclusion of this series.............. I'm sorry)

The snack bar has been uncommonly quiet for the past few days without Gintoki’s bombastic presence. Tama knows better than to worry, though. Even when Shinpachi and Kagura come around to ask if they have any idea where he is, she calculates the possibility of his return is high.

 

Yet the weeks drag on and the whispers around town grow. They’re paid a visit by Inspector Yamazaki, who is making inquiries. Then the confirmation sweeps in on a day like any other: Gintoki is gone. Vanished from Kabukicho, and likely Edo.

 

“Gone,” Otose mutters, and stabs her cigarette out. “I don’t believe it.”

 

Tama’s databanks suggest that Gintoki does not simply __disappear__ or __abandon__ people. And if he had run away, it would not have been without good reason. Gintoki is the strongest person she knows. He would run __into__ a fight, not from it. Therefore: he will return, once he has completed whatever business needs taking care of.  

 

It is the only logical conclusion.

 

**

 

The white plague’s appetite is bottomless, a ravenous beast that gorges itself indiscriminately.  

 

Yamazaki has no time for anything anymore: not badminton, not anpan, nothing fun or frivolous. A near-permanent funereal mood hangs over the Shinsengumi. Headquarters feels like a morgue, the gold trim of their uniforms muted against the sterile white masks they now wear.

 

His investigation into the missing ex-Shiroyasha was quickly closed, and he was drafted into enforcing quarantine and the newly-established curfew. Though he tries to concentrate on his present duties, Yamazaki’s mind can’t help but wander back to Sakata. He is sure there’s a link between his disappearance and the outbreak of the white plague -- coincidences in Kabukicho are a rare breed.

 

Yamazaki takes to hanging around Otose’s snack bar when he’s off-duty, half-expecting Sakata to appear in a blaze of white and explain himself, then save the day as is his habit. Yamazaki wouldn’t complain. The Shinsengumi would be happy to turn a blind eye too, maybe even pardon him if he carried off his heroics in minimally damaging fashion (unlikely).

 

All Yamazaki wants is for the world to go back to normal.

 

**

 

For an intelligence officer, Inspector Yamazaki is rather conspicuous. Day after day he takes up the same post a few feet from the entrance, subsisting on store-bought anpan and a range of other snacks. Though she doesn’t know what his precise aim is, he isn’t doing anyone other than himself any harm. So she simply monitors his movements.

 

One morning, she notices that his fatigue is reaching dangerous levels. As there are no customers and her cleaning duties are complete, she meets him halfway. “Come in. You cannot be comfortable stalking us from behind a lamp post 18 hours a day.” He looks up at her blearily from shadow-rimmed eyes. And collapses.

 

Humans are unreasonable, Tama concludes as she hauls the inspector’s body back. But it cannot be said that they are not dedicated. She knows that their stubbornness is key to seeing them through the plague.

 

**

 

After his first embarrassing visit to Otose’s Snack Bar as a guest and not a police stalker, Yamazaki finds, surprisingly, that he enjoys the company. While he might have expected present circumstances to justify less-than-friendly attitudes towards the police, Otose, Catharine and Tama are more accommodating than he deserves.

 

“What’s the point in harassing you?” Otose snorts. “Do you know how much energy that takes? I’m still young at heart, but this old body isn’t. Besides,” she takes a long drag of her cigarette, “I’ve lived too long to spend my last days bitter and spiteful.”

 

Yamazaki likes talking with Tama most. He had explained his search for Sakata and the logic underlying it, and she’d agreed with him. “You do not have anpan for brains,” she concluded from their conversation, and it made Yamazaki genuinely laugh for the first time in months.

 

“I know you are concerned,” she tells him. “But Master Gintoki will come back. In the meantime, all we can do is continue carrying out our duties to the best of our ability. Trust that he will return. Believe in him. That is what I have stored in my memory.”  

 

Another first in months for Yamazaki: hope. Weak and flickering, but determined not to die. Tama goes watery in his vision. “You’re right,” he says. “Thank you, Tama.”

 

“You are welcome, Inspector Yamazaki.”

 

**

 

She comes to enjoy his visits for their regularity, like the clockwork and programming that keep her functional. They must be thankful for the few constants in a world that’s becoming darker by the day. As the plague drags on into its second year, Tama knows Inspector Yamazaki’s footsteps so well she can set out his customary drink before he steps foot into the bar.   

 

“Thanks, Tama.”

 

The Shinsengumi officer downs the shot in seconds. She pours another without being asked. The shadows under his eyes have taken over his entire face of late.  

 

“More bad news?”

 

“Another flare-up of the plague around Shimbashi. We thought we’d kept it contained after a week without any reports of new outbreaks… Seems a kid managed to get out of the quarantine zone.”

 

“Children are difficult to keep track of.” It’s not a condemnation of anyone. Just an observation. As the good inspector would say, they were all condemned to this hellish existence.

 

“Tama.” He has given up drinking and is instead staring at the bottom of his glass. “Do you ever think… that it might be wrong to still have hope after all this time? I really thought we had that kid quarantined. Yesterday, we had a promising lead on a cure. But they all fall apart and then we’re back to the beginning. What was the point of getting our hopes up when nothing changes?

 

“And then, I found myself looking forward to seeing you today. Despite all the suffering and pain that we can’t do a single thing about, I couldn’t wait to come here and tell you everything. Because you give me hope. Is that so wrong?”

 

Tama processes his words carefully. “It is only wrong when there is no possibility of improvement. Delusion is not hope. But there is still a 50% chance of this situation ending well. Master Gintoki will make the difference. And he is more likely than not to return.”

 

“Right.” Inspector Yamazaki lays his head on the bar and shuts his eyes. “Okay. I believe you, Tama.”

 

**

 

The Shinsengumi splinters, and suddenly the Snack Bar becomes Yamazaki’s sole sanctuary.  

 

“Inspector Yamazaki.” Tama greets him with his usual drink and a meal (on the house, so says Otose).

 

“You don’t need to call me ‘inspector’ anymore,” he says. “The good thing is, now that I’m no longer Shinsengumi, I can concentrate on a way of finding Sakata and bringing him back. If the 50-50 odds of making the world right depends on him, we have to make our own chance, right?”

 

Tama, for the first time, looks taken aback. Then, she nods. “Yes.”

 

Everyone who wants to see Gintoki again -- they will make their own faith, build their own hope.

 

“And if the world ends anyway, then it wouldn’t have been because we just sat there doing nothing.” Yamazaki holds Tama’s gaze, struck with a sudden sense of urgency. “But if it ends, I want you to know that I’m happy to have met you.”

 

He doesn’t expect her to reciprocate. “I feel the same way,” she says, and smiles.    

 

**

 

One day, he does not come. The entrance of the snack bar yawns at her like a mocking grin. Though she runs as many diagnostic tests as she can, there appears to be no technical explanation for the aching in her chest.   

 

The next morning, Gengai arrives. “Tama. It’s time.”

 

She will do what must be done, what is her duty. At the same time, she does this nurturing a seed of hope, however abstract and inappropriate it is for her programming. Once Gintoki returns, the world will go back to normal. She will see everyone again. She will see Yamazaki.

 

It is the only logical conclusion.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done! After three actual seasons! Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, commented or subscribed, I am most grateful for your patience and kindness <3 <3 <3


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